


give me reasons we should be complete

by bastet_goddess, chatterghosts



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: (thanos voice) perfectly balanced as all things should be, M/M, curt gets extra crispy, its sad and then its not, this fic is the product of bisexual panic and bullshittery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:42:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet_goddess/pseuds/bastet_goddess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/chatterghosts/pseuds/chatterghosts
Summary: Every muscle in Curt’s body seemed to stall its own functions for a matter of seconds, where he realized three things:First: he could pick out that voice in a crowded room. Twelve people or twelve thousand, the numbers didn’t matter — he could recall each delicate inflection, the thick accent’s indicative lilts on certain turns of phrase. He knew it inside and out.Second: as far as he’d known, the voice’s owner was long dead.Curt flinched at the way his voice cracked when it came out, soft and breathy and almost imperceptible. “W— what?”Third: Curt Mega had an unfortunate habit of being very, very wrong.(Or, the fic where Curt gets tortured by Owen.)





	give me reasons we should be complete

**Author's Note:**

> TW for descriptions of electrocution.

The first thing Curt noticed,  _ really _ noticed, was that the room he was in smelled like metal. Hell, before today he didn't even know that metal  _ had _ any sort of pungent smell, but holy  _ shit. _ From the concrete floor to the bare rafters, the entire space had a pronounced smell of pennies and nickels; it wasn't unpleasant, but it rather had the same climate of a public pool — slightly gross, but only if you think about it for too long. (Lucky for him, if there was one thing Curt Mega was good at  _ not  _ doing, it was thinking.)

The second thing he noticed was the thick leather digging into his wrists. He considered a slightly tasteless joke about the kinkiness of the situation, but ultimately abandoned the idea — every squirm or minimal motion made the leather straps cut just a little deeper. It sunk into his skin too sharply, prompting him to wince and look away and around the vicinity. In any case, the room was seemingly empty (and that was the third thing he'd noticed). 

He squinted slightly into the darkness before him, wondering what time it was. It felt somewhat like late evening, though he hardly counted on his circadian rhythm for any sense of accuracy since the incident with O—

He shook his head furiously as he turned his chin to the faintest light hanging overhead. "Hello?"

The sound volleyed across the walls, echoing into the seemingly infinite expanse above. Curt frowned.

_ "Hello?" _ he insisted.

Nothing. There was nothing for him to listen to. Curt closed his eyes and strained his ears for a sound — but there was only the creaking of the wooden rafters above, the rustling of some dried leaves in the corner, and perhaps, in the far-off darkness, the sound of something sharp pressing against something soft.

“Hell _ ooooo, _ ” Curt called again, dragging out the word with an almost sneer-like curl to his lips. “Anyone home? Your, uhh, place looks like _ shit!” _

"Just you and me tonight, Mega,” responded a familiar voice.

Every muscle in Curt’s body seemed to stall its own functions for a matter of seconds, where he realized three things:

First: he could pick out that voice in a crowded room. Twelve people or twelve thousand, the numbers didn’t matter — he could recall each delicate inflection, the thick accent’s indicative lilts on certain turns of phrase. He knew it inside and out.

Second: as far as he’d known, the voice’s owner was long dead.

Curt flinched at the way his voice cracked when it came out, soft and breathy and almost imperceptible. “W— what?”

Third: Curt Mega had an unfortunate habit of being very,  _ very  _ wrong.

"You heard me." Owen’s voice seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, moving to wherever Curt turned away from. The clicking of boots against concrete flooring seemed to move towards no given direction, and he tried so hard to track where it was going. This place’s acoustics made the sound bounce around in such a way that he had no clue where else to turn to seek it.

He looked down at his own feet, finding himself on a white canvas, plain and unassuming. Dread settled in his stomach as soon as he realized what it was for, craning his neck to check his surroundings and see if there was anything to prove his theory. 

Owen, meanwhile, was zeroing in on his target. Curt Mega. The American agent. God, he's waited so damn long for this. This is the man who ruined his life, who broke him in pieces and never dared to pick him up again, who left him for dead in Russia all those years ago. He recalled his father's words, ringing in his head. Gentlemen don't exact revenge, but it's good he isn't a gentleman now, isn’t it?

He stepped into the light, and found himself face to face with his mark. 

Curt couldn’t even begin to mask his horror. Seeing Owen appear right in front of him was his best dream and worst nightmare realized — the fact that the other man was very much  _ alive _ filled his chest with something akin to the relief of coming home, but the feeling was quickly smothered under cold, hard dread the moment he remembered the leather cutting into his hands and feet.  _ Get your shit together, Mega. Right now, he’s the enemy. _

An uneasy laugh escaped Curt. “You don’t seem like you’re here to reminisce.”

"Clearly." Owen clicked his tongue and observed him, tilting his head to get a better view of the leather straps. They were just starting to cut into skin, red and raw from constantly being pressed down on. Any more movements and he’s sure that it’ll bleed, spilling over the leather and onto the canvas at his feet. He bit back a grin. "What, Mega, no snide comments now? Not even a hello?"

Every word out of Owen’s mouth bore down on Curt with an indescribable weight. “What are you doing? I- I don’t understand, you— you  _ died, _ I watched you die.”

_ "Watched  _ me, Mega?" He scoffed and stepped in closer, standing next to the table beside Curt's chair. He opened the box that was set there and hissed, "You  _ left _ to save yourself."

Curt craned his neck to see what was in the box to no avail — really, he’d only succeeded in jostling the raw skin of his wrists, but hey, that didn’t hurt nearly as much as Owen’s refusal to call him anything but ‘Mega’ with that ardent sense of vindication and hatred. “That’s not true, Owen, you— you  _ have _ to believe me, that’s  _ not _ true.”

"Really now?" He quirked an eyebrow and flicked a switch that was on the box, tilting it toward Curt’s view. A power generator had been hooked up to the chair — a nifty little gadget the boys at Chimera had made for Owen, a special request he put in just for this moment.

The sight of the generator made Curt’s breaths start coming a little harder, a little faster. The look in his eyes was frantic, near begging, and he tried so hard to argue his case. ”Yes! When you- when you... fell, I- I dug through the rubble as much as I could — I swear, Owen, I fucking _ swear _ I looked for you.”

Owen scoffed once more and shook his head, done with the current situation. There’s no way he’ll let Curt talk his way out of this, not when he’s tried so damn hard to find a reason to hate him. He worked to get this chance with Curt, to show him how much it  _ hurt _ to be left on the floor of that warehouse as if it was nothing. He gripped the dial and turned it up low. "Well, your skills in that department are  _ shit." _

Curt felt his breath suck in, every inch of his body trembling as he let out a handful of groans through clenched teeth. “You d—“ Another shallow, pained breath, “—d-don’t have to do this.  _ P-please _ don’t do this.”

"Oh, but I  _ want  _ to, Mega. Do you know how it  _ felt _ to burn in that goddamn warehouse?" Owen hissed as he watched Curt, watched the rabid look in his eyes. He shook so violently in that chair, and he knew that if he looked closer, he could see the barest bits of blood staining the leather already. Soon enough there would be splotches of it on the canvas, but even then, it wasn’t even half of the pain Owen had experienced in his tenure with Chimera.

Smiling, he dialed it up. "It felt like that."

Curt’s pleas were lost in a series of incoherent, guttural grunts. His whole body seized and quaked at the fact that it was currently being used as a live-wire, at the excess of raw and painful energy squirming beneath his skin. _ ”S- st-st—“ _

With that, Owen turned it down, a beat or two passing before he turned it off completely and slunked back into the shadows, set on searching for where he stashed his bag of torture tools to use. "Since you asked so nicely."

All composure lost, Curt unraveled onto the chair with an almost-wheeze of a cough. When Owen reappeared, Curt’s gaze was trained on the revolver he grabbed. His feet desperately tried to push him away from the danger. “Owen, what— why— we were  _ partners _ .” 

"So that's what you think of us, _ Curt _ , partners?" Owen made sure the emotion slipped into his words as he walked stiffly back to the man, revolver gripped tightly. He was in Curt’s face within seconds, staring dead on into his eyes. Owen grabbed him by his chin and forced him to maintain eye contact. "You sure didn't act like one four years ago."

Curt’s eyes, however, were still locked on the motions of Owen and his revolver. A few meek whimpers escaped him from the lingering electrocution pain. “That’s not  _ fair, _ Owen. I fucking tried! I know I fucked up, but I  _ tried!” _

Owen glared at him, not even blinking. He remembered a different time when he heard Curt whimper like that, in a different setting and time when it was just the two of them and no one else. He remembered how it was so soft and vulnerable,  _ still  _ so soft and vulnerable. His mind nagged him with the notion that he was still in love with this damned American. He took a sharp breath in and cast the thought aside. 

Despite that love, this American still hurt him. 

"I'm giving you two choices," he said firmly, voice a husky whisper that only the two of them could hear. It dripped with an unspoken threat. "The gun or the wire."

Curt went completely, unnervingly still. There was a substantial amount of sweat on his face now; his body was still shaking like a leaf in the wind, chest twitching in every uneven breath. 

“N— no.”

Snapping, Owen stepped back, gripped the gun tight, and smashed it against the side of Curt’s face. "Answer the fucking question, Mega!" 

Despite the throbbing pain in his cheek, he turned his face toward Owen in a snarl. His eyes read nothing but sheer defiance even if his hair had fallen on his face and the blood had started to dribble down his temple. “If you’re going to torture me, I’m not going to make it easy for you. Actually, I’m going to make it as hard as humanly possible.  _ Fuck you, _ Owen Carvour.”

Owen took in the snarl on Curt's face, watching the clear anger that burned in his gaze. His heart ached faintly at the sight, sad that he’d finally become the target of Curt’s rage. He remembered a time when that fury was directed to a common enemy, a time when he was grateful it wasn't directed at him.

Now? He's glad it's on him. It just makes all of this easier. "The box it is, then."

Curt’s face contorted in a grimace, his anger betrayed by the faintest gleam of tears in his eyes. “What happened to you, Owen?”

Owen sniffed dryly and took a few quick steps, standing before the generator. Curt craned his head to stare him down as he dialled it up high. "You don’t recall? You killed me."

Curt could barely get out more than a single “Owen, _ please—“ _ before his body was consumed by white-hot nothing. The sensation seemed to choke out every ounce of comprehension in him — he threw his head back and went almost militaristically rigid, and he bit his tongue to try and hold back his screams. His mouth tasted like copper. 

Owen, meanwhile, took his blessed time, watching Curt spasm before him. Curt’s breaths came out in short gasps, near wheezing, and he could see the bit of blood that started to trickle down Curt’s nose. Owen bided his time by running a hand through his own hair, smoothing the locks and sighing. This'll be a long night.

In the beautiful rose-tinted glasses of hindsight, Curt knew he probably did deserve this. At least a little. The carelessness that had lead to Owen’s ‘death’ was his cross to bear; he fucked up and someone else had paid the price. How horrifically unfair.

What a way to fucking go, though. Electrocuted in a chair? Hell, only a few unlucky bastards — most of them the utter scum of the earth — could say that they’d gone out like that. And Curt  _ was _ going out. Whether Owen knew it or not, he was dying quickly and painfully, unable to so much as breathe under the prolonged electrical exposure. 

All this and more drifted through the cotton haze of Curt’s brain, gone as quickly as it had come. If he felt like thinking morbidly, perhaps he’d say it was ephemeral.

But he didn’t say anything.

Owen turned off the generator and watched as Curt sputtered for breath, waiting patiently while thinking of what to do next. Does he shock him again or try the revolver? Does he start punching the living shit out of him or cut him to pieces? He stepped into the canvas sheet's borders and listened to the satisfying crunch of it against his boots, whiteness soiled by his dirtied soles and Curt’s blood.

"I have all night, Mega, take your time," he snarled in a false sweetness as Curt struggled to take deep breaths, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling his head back. 

He was not prepared for the pain he felt when he saw those listless eyes.

Curt’s head had practically lolled to the side, his mouth partially open to let a few half-gulps of air come in and out. He blinked once or twice, his gaze bleary and glassy. Whatever he’d meant to say at that moment, maybe some snarky comment about the turn Owen’s expression had taken, simply came out as a long, unintelligible, spine-shuddering moan.

Owen quickly tried to regain his composure, ignoring the dull pain in his heart at the way Curt writhed periodically post-electrocution. Owen let go of his hair as if he was the one being electrocuted, stepping back and off of the sheet. He took a deep breath in and stalked back into the darkness.

Curt’s head hit the back of the chair with a _ thunk _ the moment Owen let go, a low whine working its way out of his throat, all the while snapping him back to reality somewhat. Each word was a struggle, slurred and half-formed as they left him. “Y... y’gonna fucking... k-kill me now? Huh...?”

"No," Owen called back simply and grabbed a chair in the nearby corner, pulling it back to the light and sitting down on it. It was just on the edge of the canvas sheet, just barely there. He crossed his legs patiently and bounced his leg. 

Curt’s head seemed to oscillate from side to side for a moment before suddenly stopping, drowsy eyes snapping open. “You— you’re gonna torture me more? Y-y-you sick fuck, you’re—“

"I’m  _ what?" _ Owen challenged, fiddling with the gun trigger and tilting his head back defiantly. If Curt could focus his eyes long enough he’d catch the familiar way those eyes glinted, like an old vintage picture from a different era. He arched his eyebrow and waited for Curt to stutter through his words.

“C—“ He couldn’t even get the words out. His head dropped. “Y— y-you’ve had your fun. Is this n-not enough for you?”

"Nothing's ever enough." That was the truth. Nothing could cancel out the pain he felt in that warehouse explosion, or in Chimera. Not even killing Curt would do, even if it was near pitiable to hear him stutter. He raised the gun to rest on his leg, pointing it straight at Curt's stomach. "Tell me, Curt, did you mourn?"

There were about ten seconds of tense silence.

“M-more than you could ever know,” Curt responded sincerely.

Owen scoffed, fiddling with the trigger once more. "Funny, because I don't believe you one bit."

He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

Curt flinched all the same, gaze pinned on the revolver chamber. “H-how— how do I make you believe me, then?”

"You tell me." Owen hummed as he sat back, calm as he popped out the chamber and spun it again. Both of them knew this game and how it worked, and he wanted so badly now for the bullet to fire and embed itself in Curt’s flesh. He fished out a flask from his inner pocket and took a quick swig. "What would prove it to me?"

Curt’s eyes darted aimlessly around the room for a moment as if he could somehow find his answers there. “... E-Elizabeth? Mrs. Carvour, y-your mom. She was at the f— she was at your funeral, too.”

Owen stilled and took in a deep breath, waiting for him to be answered as he popped the chamber back into place.

Mother. She was the only other person he missed when he "died", the one woman who cared for him despite all he's done. She was the most painful person to part with when he went down this path on his own, perhaps more painful than leaving Curt. 

He can bring himself to hate him, but he can never dare hate his mother.

“A-and— god, Sphinx? Your cat? She still lives with her, i-in case you were wondering. And, and, uh...”

Curt’s voice tapered into silence for a moment or two. He knew what he should mention, but...

“July 8, 1956. T-the facility in Paris.”

It felt as if Owen’s breath was knocked out of his lungs, and he stilled for a moment, one hand poised with the flask and the other on the revolver. He remembered that mission, or well, parts of it. He knew of what happened on the official reports that Curt (painstakingly) wrote for the both of them while he was in the hospital, but he knew even then that some parts didn't add up. Cynthia would probably agree with him about it, probably even ask about what he thought about the mission.

"What about it, Mega?" Owen asked carefully, wary, unsure of where this was going. His heart thumped faster against his chest, mind trying to reel back to the few glimpses of memory that he had of that time. "What's so special about Paris that you think it's worth my time?"

Every heartbeat in Curt’s chest felt like a mallet against a bass drum, and it seemed to make every breath that came out of him a struggle.

“D— do you remember what I said when those arms dealers had a gun to your forehead?”

_ Don’t make me say it. Please don’t make me say it. _

Owen tilted his head, mind spinning with memories of that mission. He remembered the fear of that, the terror he felt when his gun was taken from him and his own pistol was pressed against his forehead. He remembered the way he looked beyond the dealer's shoulder to see Curt's terrified face, the way he demanded they let Owen go.

Then he remembered those words, the last thing he remembered before shit hit the fan. He wanted to hear them again.

"Remind me."

_ Oh, you motherfucker. _ For the first time in a long, long time, Curt laughed. It hurt to laugh right now, what with his ribs aching and his head pounding in time with his laughter. It was soft and reedy, almost indistinguishable from his slow breathing, but  _ God _ . Owen really hadn’t changed.

“‘Please don’t shoot him, I don’t know what I’d do without him,’” he recalled softly, voice cracking just a little, but it wasn’t enough.

Now— maybe he was feeling a bit ballsy, maybe it was the repeated electrocution, but he didn’t stop there. 

“I— I was always the one with the barrel on my forehead, you know? You never slipped up, never. Always one step ahead, l-like you always said. Seeing you so- so helpless hurt like nothing I’d ever known before.”

His voice seemed to thin out at the end, his gaze dropped to the floor. “I think that was when I figured out I didn’t want to do anything without you there with me ever again.”

Another shallow laugh. “Still don’t.”

Time stopped. Owen’s breath stopped and stuttered in his throat, locking itself in his chest where it settled.  For the first time this whole evening, his face slackened and for once he felt everything and nothing in one move, felt years of hatred and frustration unravel in seconds to give way to pure pain. Owen prided himself for the wall he built around his heart to protect it from further damage; he was so damn proud that he found a way to keep it from falling apart because he sure as hell cannot fix it. No, he's too broken, broken in too many pieces to be recognizable. 

He remembered Curt's desperation, the whimper in his tone. Who would have thought Agent Curt Mega, the greatest spy America's ever produced, would have begged for the life of a British agent such as him? It didn't make sense then, shouldn't make sense now, and never would make sense in the future. He didn't get it, he was confused, how could Curt still love him after all this time?

In a fit of anger he yelled and threw the revolver aside, listening to it skitter across the floor and hit something. It fired off with a loud blast, the bullet ricocheting against something before there was nothing. Owen took a deep breath in. The killing bullet. He could have killed Curt.

Goddamn it all to hell, was this what it felt like to breathe again?

In all of five seconds, Curt heard the revolver skid across concrete, a deafening  _ bang _ , the sound of the bullet colliding with something out of sight, and then... silence.

At this point, it seemed there was a choice to be made, between moving forward with the life he’d made for himself and... Owen. The decision seemed simple— he was still reeling from being electrocuted, and somehow Curt had a feeling that the stutter that had plagued him throughout this venture wasn’t going to disappear any time soon. Getting smacked upside the head with a revolver is usually conducive to some nasty cuts and bruising, and all of that was a mere start on the many, many marks Owen had left on Curt. In this, the most vulnerable of moments, he could choose.

(The answer, of course, was Owen. He’d always choose Owen.)

"Goddamn it, Curt, why are you always like this?" Owen hissed. He felt like he fell off the ledge all over again. It felt as if he was the one being electrocuted, as if he was burning at the bottom of that staircase, and he immediately flew out of the chair to pace. He walked away, drained his flask and tossed it aside, and popped a button from his shirt. His heart was racing and thundering against his chest and he couldn't breathe, not with this revelation, and he rested his head against the concrete and screamed.

Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ , he still loved him.

“What, r-ruggedly handsome and lovable?” Maybe it wasn’t a good time for a joke, but Curt was clinging to his consciousness by bare threads. At least Owen had given him a good wake up call with the screaming despite the fact that he’d practically jumped out of his skin. 

God. He didn’t know why _he_ was the one asking this, but— “A-are you alright?”

Owen quivered from where he stood, feeling the way his body rattled and shook. Was he terrified now, at the prospect that he was in love?  _ Always _ been in love despite all that's happened? He can't believe it to be real, that this piece of him survived despite the countless times he’d tried snuffing it out. His heart pounded fiercely in time with his head, and he sighed when he felt the tears erupt behind his eyelids.

And he thought he was having fun tonight. Perhaps not. "I'm just tired."

Curt couldn’t help the weak little chuckle he gave. The pain pounding in his head had declined into a constant sort of hum behind his ears, a steady but controllable hurt that made him wonder if there was any permanent damage. “M-me too, but only one of us just got the— the shit electrocuted out of us.”

Owen remained still and took deep breaths, tried to right himself and find an answer to his ongoing dilemma. Did he even want to hurt Curt, after this revelation? Could he bring himself to hurt him again?

Even he knew the answer was no. He can't bring himself to do it. 

"Fuck." He sighed and turned back to Curt, eyeing the blotches of red that dusted the canvas sheet. Shit, he forgot he hurt Curt with that pistol whip. He already felt sorry.

“Ha, maybe later,” he responded quietly. Humor was his go-to at this point, an easy cover for the ache that spread throughout him like ink in water. “But, uh, hey, these leather straps a-aren’t the friendliest, so if you could...”

Owen snapped into action, feet automatically moving as he felt his sight blur with tears. Fuck, this is low even for him, and he stepped within sight to remove the straps from Curt's wrists. They were bulky and heavy, near difficult to remove, but he persisted nonetheless as if it'd right the mortal wrong he'd commit against this man. 

He didn't dare look him in the eye. He can't. He didn't deserve to look at that face. 

He paused when he felt Curt's hand move to his cheek.

In truth, he touched Owen’s face partially so he could use the man to try and stand. And he did, against all odds; his legs shook furiously, but still he stood, one hand braced against Owen’s shoulder for support and the other on Owen’s cheek. “Look at me. Look. Please.”

Owen remained rooted to his spot, closing his eyes as he relished that touch and shivered. It was just as how he remembered it, warm and calloused but still Curt. His hands trembled,  _ damn it _ they did, and he took in a shaky breath and muttered. "I-I can't."

Curt’s gaze had an element of pleading to it, his eyes still somewhat shiny and red. “Owen,  _ please. _ Just for a second. T-this is important.”

Owen tilted his head up, unsure of what he'd see. This had to be some sort of prayer, some request for forgiveness to whatever divine power was out there. He was on his knees and Curt was standing strong, albeit holding onto Owen by his shoulder. His breath came out shaky as he saw the softness in Curt’s eyes, shining with unshed tears as he felt his own slip out. "I'm sorry."

Curt broke into the meekest, shakiest smile, the tears in his eyes finally starting to roll down his cheeks. “I know. But I— I forgive you. A-and I’m never gonna leave you again.”

It was like an unseen burden was lifted off of Owen’s shoulders. He choked back a sob as his head hung low again, gripping Curt by his waist to steady him (more of himself), feeling that thumb brush away his tears soothingly. He took deep breaths in and looked back up to Curt, utter devotion in his eyes as he slowly turned his head to the side and pressed a quiet kiss against his palm.

He's never going to leave him either, ever again. Owen will make sure of that.

Curt’s hand moved from Owen’s cheek to his hair, his fingers lazily and shakily combing through it. “Now that we’ve go-gotten that done, I’d really like to be able to walk again, so...”

"Oh! Of course." He made quick work taking the straps off of Curt's ankles, cursing when his sight blurred and brushed the tears away with the back of his hand. His fingers fumbled every now and then but he got his Curt free, keeping him from toppling forward by shooting up and catching him in his arms. "It's okay- it's okay, love, I-I've got you."

Curt breathed Owen’s name like a prayer when he caught him. His legs hurt like a bitch, his head still hummed in pain, but— love. Owen  _ loved _ him. He was Owen’s love. God, the sheer novelty of it all could have bowled Curt over in seconds flat were it not for Owen’s grip on him. How things had changed so quickly he wasn’t sure, but Hell if he wasn’t grateful for it. “Love, huh? Y— you think so?”

"I know so," Owen mumbled. Bending over a bit, he wrapped an arm around Curt's torso as the other looped behind his knees. He huffed when he finally carried Curt - God, he was heavier than he remembered, but at least it was  _ him _ . Curt radiated a familiar heat that comforted his pounding heart, and he looked into his eyes and tried to make him feel that he was sorry. "I've always known."

Curt’s embarrassment at being carried faded when he realized he was close enough to feel how Owen’s heart was pounding inside his chest. “H... ha, me too.”

Two beats or so. “Hey, O-Owen?”

"Hm?" Curt had Owen’s absolute attention and care as he gripped him tighter, in fear of dropping him. He's already hurt him too much tonight, he can't do it again. "What is it, love?"

_ Thanks for saving... no, he kind of caused this. _

_ I’m glad you’re not dead. Is that too on the nose? _

He wasn’t sure what to say — so he said nothing at all, gently turning Owen’s chin down to him and leaning upward himself to connect their lips in a short, gentle kiss.

Owen nearly melted into it, feeling fresh tears sprout from his eyes as he felt those familiar lips against his. God, it's felt like forever since he last felt this.  _ You don't deserve this, _ his mind warned him. 

His heart, however painfully, agreed as he tried to pull away. "Curt—"

Curt looked up at Owen for a moment, frowning apologetically at the fact that he didn’t seem to reciprocate. “I-I’m sorry, I just—“

"No, stop, I-" He took a deep breath in and sighed, eyes skittering away as he looked at anything but Curt. He didn't deserve this easy forgiveness. "I don't deserve this."

“I—“ Curt looked down, then back up again. “Maybe you don’t, but- y’know. I-I fucked up and got you blown up, you electrocuted the shit out of me. We’re- we’re even.”

"That's not how it—" Owen sighed and bowed his head, fighting back tears. This conversation didn't even make sense, how did his night go like this? "Curt, that's not how this works. You don't forgive me like this."

“Well, f-first, I just did, so bite me. Secondly, you— listen, I’m not saying you should go out and electrocute and pistol whip the people who wronged you, but- I get it, o-okay? I get it. I know why you did the- the shit you did. All we can do now is... move on.”

Owen finally turned to Curt and blinked dumbly, for once scrambling to find the right words to say. "I'd rather not bite you, I've done you enough pain. I do, however, want to kiss you." 

So he did just that.

After a moment or two, Curt flashed a quick little smile and parted his face from Owen’s, his head tilting to rest on the man’s shoulder. “Can— c-can we get out of here?”   
_ Thought you'd never ask. _ He gripped Curt tighter and smiled, murmuring low, "Let's go home."

**Author's Note:**

> ALSO JUST TO BE CLEAR Curt's stutter was bc of the heavy ass electrocution. Is it permanent? shit man idk if there's a sequel to this I'll let u know


End file.
